LET MY SONG be simple as the waking in the morning, as the dripping of dew from the leaves,
Simple as the colours in clouds and showers of rain in the midnight.
But my lute strings are newly strung and they dart their notes like spears sharp in their newness.
Thus they miss the spirit of the wind and hurt the light of the sky; and these strains of my songs fight hard to push back thy own music.

THE DEW-DROP knows the sun
only within its own tiny orb.

COME FRIEND, who can free me from bonds of toil,
for I lag behind while the pilgrims rush to follow their vision.
Come like a sudden flood that runs with its offerings to the sea,
Sweep me away from the load that drags me down.
Come from among the crowd,
you, to whom I fully belong,
who can call me by my own true name
and smile and be known to me for ever.